


Leaving You Cold

by izzyb



Category: POE Edgar Allan - Works, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Horror Comment Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyb/pseuds/izzyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They beamed down to the planet, as ordered, to discover the disease killing everyone and the self-proclaimed prince holing himself up for a <i>party</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving You Cold

They’d assembled a medical team and beamed down to the planet to answer a distress call, as ordered by the pompous brass at the top. Never mind the fact that the asshole in charge of said planet doesn’t seem to care that his people are dying of a disease McCoy had thought eradicated centuries ago, or one just like it anyway. Rather than the swelling lumps of the black plague that resulted in a week-long agonizing descent into death, the victims of this disease develop large open sores on their bodies that bleed them out within the space of a half-hour.

It’s a gruesome and awful sight that makes even the weary I’ve-seen-everything nurses and med techs and doctors, such as himself, shiver inside their protective suits.

Chapel’s tapping him on the shoulder as he’s wrist-deep in blood (the patient he’d been scanning had started to cough, which only sped up his bleeding). She’s holding a smeared communicator in her hand and he notices her cheeks are streaked with what looks like both sweat and tears behind her mask.

“We’re ordered to report to the capital—they’ve located the fucking prince.”

Yes, that’s her exact words—and in such pretty vernacular too. She isn’t one to be professional under duress, not when there is far worse thing to worry about. So, not only is the guy in charge an idiot, he's also crowned himself a prince now that his competition is dead and gone. Killed by the disease, of course. Conveniently.

“And what do they expect us to do?”

She grins, but there’s no mirth in her eyes. It's more teeth than smile. “Attend his party, of course.”

Oh, joy.

*

He and Christine are the last ones inside before the gate is locked and barred. From the outside. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asks Christine if they still have contact with the _Enterprise_. She nods and the knots in his stomach loosen, if only a little. At least they will be able to beam out, even if everyone else won’t.

What the hell is the prince thinking?

He’s not, McCoy decides as they are handed masks and costumes that they fit awkwardly over their uniforms and suits—no way in hell will McCoy allow them to be exposed to a disease for which there is no cure.

The idea leaves him colder than he’s been all day; the idea that, once again, they are going to be unable to save those they came here to help. Once again they are going to be leaving people to die because some rich madman is power-hungry enough to allow it.

He’s not sure just why Starfleet ordered them here to attend this spectacle—whirls of colorful dancers and floating music moving through the many rooms in an attempt to distract from the death outside. Are they meant to bring the Prince to justice?

The whole situation feels otherworldly, like McCoy and Chapel are there to pay some sort of penance, to see what would happen if they didn’t have the same rules that they have on so-called “civilized” planets. So they could appreciate what they have or some such shit.

Justice comes in an unexpected way—the tolling of a clock, like in a bad movie where ghouls fly down from the ceiling and moan theatrically while people are ripped to pieces by the monster-of-the-week. Instead of a monster, though, the villain is a scared little girl, all of seven, with a ripped red dress and a pulsating open sore on her chest that screams danger and disease.

“Who let her in?” the prince demands, but his close-personal "friends" back away from him and line the walls, the forced happiness of the party completely overtaken by fear.

Chapel gasps next to him and takes his hand. He barely feels it, too caught up in the horror of the prince wielding a jeweled sword and taking deliberate steps towards the child, murder in his eyes.

This, at least, he can stop.

It’s pointless. She’ll die anyway, they all will, but he steps between the prince and the girl, holding up his newly-drawn phaser menacingly. As if in slow motion, he notices that he’s dragged Christine by the hand with him, that she’s speaking into her communicator demanding two be beamed aboard, _now_ , that the sword is slashing towards him.

A few seconds later, they’re wrapped around each other on the transporter pad, shell-shocked. McCoy wipes absently at his stinging arm, then stares at the blood dripping from his gloved hands to make bright red stains on the pristine white of the floor.

Chapel's trembling under him, suit intact, her eyes wide.

“Sir?” the transporter ensign asks hesitantly. “Should I notify sickbay?”

“No,” McCoy grits out. “Seal off the room.”

At least it won’t be long.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for boosette's prompt of "Masque of the Red Death" at the Horror Comment Meme


End file.
